


20 Romantic Rituals From Around The World

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Dildos, Established Relationship, Fluff, Honey, International Kissing Day, Kissing, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Love Letters, M/M, Makeup, Marriage Proposal, Paris (City), Romance, Roses, St. Gregory's Day, Valentine's Day, White Day, lovespoons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: “Do I like it?” John repeats, blinking at him in confusion. “It's beautiful, yeah. Where did it come from?”
 “I made it,” Sherlock states, as if it's the most normal thing in the world to reveal that he is apparently skilled in the art of woodworking, and has decided to demonstrate it by carving a spoon. “For you.”
  John stares at Sherlock, then at the spoon. “Okay. Explain?”
Sherlock reads Cosmopolitan. John is confused. Which one of them is the romantic, anyway?





	

It starts with a bunch of roses on John's chair when he gets home.

Actually, John muses, it started with the shiny Cosmopolitan issue he saw Sherlock reading on the sofa yesterday. He didn't pay much attention to it at the time, as it isn't an uncommon sight, but now he wonders if the Valentine's Day Edition might have something to do with the flowers currently blocking his seat.

John is aware that Sherlock's motives might not be as romantic as the roses make it seem.

Nevertheless, it's a nice gesture.

John picks up the roses, touching one of the petals. It feels soft under his fingers. Definitely real.

“Sherlock,” he calls out, listening for a reply. “What's up with the roses?”

“They're for you,” Sherlock says, emerging from the bedroom a moment later. He's wearing his burgundy dressing gown, which incidentally complements the roses. John briefly wonders if he chose to colour-coordinate on purpose.

“Why are you giving me roses?” he asks, raising the bouquet to his nose. They smell nice. John smiles, meeting Sherlock's eyes over the flowers.

“I thought you might like them,” Sherlock explains. The look he's giving John is calculating, but then a satisfied smile appears on his lips.

“Well, they're nice. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

John pecks Sherlock's cheek as he passes him. Sherlock hums, then slumps onto the sofa. John takes the roses and puts them into the only vase they own. Then he sits in his chair and forgets about the entire incident.

* * *

John stops dead in his tracks when he enters the bedroom to find Sherlock cross-legged on the bed, his expression full of anticipation. John's eyes narrow.

“What is it?” he asks wearily.

“Are you done in the bathroom?”

“Yes,” John says carefully. “Why?”

“Come here,” Sherlock asks instead of giving an answer, and John lowers himself onto the bed slowly.

“I want to try something,” Sherlock says when they're facing each other. John nods once.

“Okay. What?”

He half expects Sherlock to present him with some strange new sex technique he found online, demanding that they try it immediately. It's not like it hasn't happened before.

“Stay still,” Sherlock instructs, ripping him from his thoughts. John takes a deep breath and stops moving.

Sherlock wriggles closer, looking deep into his eyes. John returns the look, waiting for him to start whatever it is he's up to. Sherlock leans in until their foreheads are resting against each other. Then he pushes his nose against John's, shifting until they are aligned.

“Stop breathing,” he mumbles. John raises his eyebrows, knowing that Sherlock will feel the movement, but holds his breath. Sherlock exhales slowly, then says, “Now breathe out.”

John does, watching Sherlock take a deep breath at the same time. “Now breathe in,” he instructs. John breathes in, and Sherlock hums. 

“Interesting,” he says and draws back.

John blinks. He considers asking, but then decides that it's not worth the effort. It's not the strangest thing Sherlock has ever asked him to do, after all. “Right. Can I lie down now?”

“Of course, yes,” Sherlock mumbles, reaching for his phone. “Good night, John,” he says, already distracted by whatever it is he's typing at the speed of light.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John says and goes to sleep.

* * *

A week passes without further incidents and John doesn't dwell on the strange request, all too used to such behaviour from Sherlock to question it.

Sherlock is out quite a lot during the week, but that's also not uncommon. At night he always crawls into bed with John, and that's all that matters. John doesn't think about it.

Until he comes back from the shops one afternoon to find a wooden spoon sitting on the table. He's certain that it wasn't there when he left, and he's also quite sure that he's never seen it before.

He doesn't even identify it as a spoon at first, too distracted by the artfully crafted handle. It's a string of symbols, carved into the wood with obvious care and attention to detail.

“Do you like it?”

John turns around, not having realised that Sherlock has entered the room. His face is full of anticipation as he nods towards the spoon.

“Do I like it?” John repeats, blinking at him in confusion. “It's beautiful, yeah. Where did it come from?”

“I made it,” Sherlock states, as if it's the most normal thing in the world to reveal that he is apparently skilled in the art of woodworking, and has decided to demonstrate it by carving a spoon. “For you.”

John stares at Sherlock, then at the spoon.

“Okay. Explain?”

“It's called a lovespoon. Inane, I know. The custom of carving these and giving them to the object of one's affection originated centuries ago in Wales. The spoon is considered proof of one's love and dedication.”

“Why a spoon?”

“It's a common household object. You can use it every day and be reminded of the person who gave it to you.” Sherlock waves his hand, pointing at the handle. “And then there are the symbols. They all have a meaning assigned to them, and you're free to choose the most fitting ones for your beloved.”

“Really?” John traces the carvings with his finger. “What do these mean, then?”

“Well, the symbolism is argued about, but I decided on the most popular interpretations.”

John nods, signing him to continue. “The heart?”

“Means that I love you. Obviously.”

John's lips twitch into a smile at the oh so typical declaration.  “Obviously,” he repeats, then asks, “The wheel?”

“That I support you.”

“Hmm. The lock?”

“Well, this one is a bit of an ironic choice, given the life we both lead, but I decided to go with the sentiment behind it. It means that you're safe with me. While both of us are not safe quite often, I wanted to convey that I'm never going to hurt you on purpose again, and that I will always keep you safe and protect you when it's in my power.”

John blinks repeatedly as he looks at Sherlock, who seems unaware of the way his heart wants to jump out of his chest.

“Sherlock,” he breathes out, then clears his throat. “The flower?”

“Affection.”

“And the last one?”

“The chain expresses a wish to be together forever. Quite macabre a symbol, if you ask me, but tradition is tradition.”

John tears his eyes from the spoon, strangely moved after learning the meaning behind it. When he looks up he searches Sherlock's face, locking eyes with him. He's watching him expectantly, looking attentive as he awaits a response.

“And you just decided to court me one day by... carving me a spoon after a romantic Welsh tradition.”

“It's not exactly courting if we're already together, but yes,” Sherlock says with a nod.

“Right.” John narrows his eyes, then shakes his head. “Why?”

“It's part of the list,” Sherlock explains. Which, of course, explains nothing.

John holds up his hands. “Okay, hold on. Now we're getting somewhere. You have a list?” Sherlock nods again. “Of what, exactly?”

“Romantic rituals from different cultures,” Sherlock replies. He hunches his shoulders when he sees John's raised eyebrows. “It was an article in Cosmopolitan. '20 Romantic Rituals From Around The World'. It was... interesting. I conducted a bit of research and created my own list.”

John licks his lips, nodding slowly. “Right. And the purpose of that list is...?”

“To determine the effectiveness of these rituals, of course.”

“Of course. Pure scientific interest, I assume.”

“Naturally.”

John's lips twitch. “And you're measuring the... effectiveness by evaluating my enjoyment of the rituals?”

“Well, a large part of the results is determined by that. Of course, my own enjoyment plays into it as well. Two participants make for a better end result.”

“Hmm,” John says, turning around to prepare himself a cup of tea. He considers using his new spoon, but then deems it too special for so mundane a task.

“So that spoon is one of these traditions,” he resumes the conversation when he settles on the sofa with his cup.

Sherlock nods, and John squints at him as something comes to his mind. “And that... nose rub the other day? And the roses,” he adds, remembering.

“Hongi,” Sherlock mumbles absently, and John frowns. “The nose rub. It's called a Hongi kiss. It's a Maori tradition between lovers, but also people of other relations who want to get to know each other better. Sometimes it's used to seal contracts. Quite backwardly, if you ask me.”

“Right. So that was part of your list, too.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” John sips at his tea. “What else is on there, then?”

“Quite a few things. Although the list is and will have to remain incomplete, seeing as we won't be able to try everything.”

“Why not?”

“Well, one of those rituals, for example, is _Ala kachuu._ ”

John blinks at him. “What's that?”

“It's a form of bride kidnapping practised in Kyrgyzstan.”

“Kidnapping?” John sputters.

Sherlock nods. “The practice involves a man abducting a woman of his choice either by force or by guile, often accompanied by other men," he explains. 

"The woman is taken to the man's home, where his female relatives convince her to put on the scarf of a married woman to show her acceptance of the 'proposal'. Sometimes, if she resists, her own relatives try to convince her to agree to the marriage. Although bride-kidnapping is technically illegal, the government of Kyrgyzstan has been accused of not taking proper steps to protect women against it. Leaving out the fact that neither of us is a woman, or a bride, the practice is nothing short of barbaric.”

"Yeah, no. God, that’s horrible.”

“Indeed it is.”

John shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s not romantic, that’s bloody mental.”

“One might say that’s the same thing,” Sherlock points out, and John snorts.

“Says the man with the list,” he mumbles. Then he puts down his cup of tea, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Okay. How about we work on that list together, hm? I mean, all of that involves me anyway, unless you're planning to conduct romantic rituals with someone else.”

Sherlock huffs. “Don't be ridiculous,” he says. He gives John a calculating look. “Maybe your awareness of the situation would allow me a better judgement of your reaction to the rituals.”

“I'm almost certain that it would, yeah. Seeing as I could talk to you about it and all.”

“Alright then,” Sherlock decides. John smiles.

“Right. Well, when you want to continue, you just let me know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbles before leaning in to kiss him.

“What else can't we try?” John asks when they part, sitting back on the sofa.

“Another marriage custom.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The Abugusii in Kenya traditionally insult the bride and groom for three days before letting them get married. It's supposed to strengthen their bond and show them that if they could get through days of verbal abuse, they can do anything together.”

John stares at him in horror. “Well, if we ever get married, I know what we're not doing.”

“I agree,” Sherlock says. John gives him a questioning look when he cocks his head, staring at him for a long moment.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

John quirks an eyebrow, but lets it slide.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, scanning the list on his phone. His eyes flicker up to John's face, giving him a scrutinising look.

“Out with it,” John sighs.

“I think you might have an issue with this one as well. I put it down with a question mark, but something tells me that you'll be against it.”

“Does it involve people being abducted or insulted on their wedding day?” John asks dryly.

“No. Apples.”

John just looks at him, and he elaborates, “It's a custom from Lower Austria, but there are similar rituals in other cultures as well. If you're enamoured with someone you put a piece of an apple under your armpit and dance, then give it to the object of your affection to eat. Other variations include potatoes, buns, or rusk. The Italian version is somewhat more hygienic; here you put a cloth under your armpit and then wave it in your beloved's face.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “See, the thought behind it is actually quite interesting. Some evolutionary biologists assume that pheromones only got to our armpits when human beings started walking upright, which is why this intimate zone is so far from our nose. Soaking something edible in these pheromones and bringing them to our mouth is a certain way to bring us in contact with them and thus enhance our attraction to our partner.”

John's mouth is hanging open. “Yuck, no! Sherlock, I swear to god. That's the most disgusting thing I've heard. We're _not_ doing that.”

Sherlock nods his head once. “I thought so,” he mumbles, typing away on his phone immediately.

“I'm glad we talked about this. We definitely agree on working on this list together, yeah? No bad surprises that way.”

“Together,” Sherlock agrees.

John nods, reassured, and drops the subject. But that doesn't stop him from inspecting every apple he's about to eat very closely for the foreseeable future.

* * *

“John?”

John looks up at the drawled call of his name. “Living room!”

Sherlock emerges from the bedroom, his hair a dishevelled mess from sleep. He squints at John, then at the window. His face lights up at the sight.

“The sun is out!” he exclaims, looking delighted at the fact. John gives him a surprised look.

“Good morning to you, too. Since when do you care about the weather?”

“I don't. I've been waiting for a sunny day ever since we talked about our list, though.” He crosses the distance between them, dropping a kiss on John's head as he passes him.

“I'd like to try another custom today.”

“Sure, what is it?”

Sherlock glances at the sky, then turns to John. “We need to find a four-leaf clover. Well, two. One for each of us.”

“And we couldn't have done that in bad weather?”

“We could, but I thought that we might combine our search with a nice... romantic walk. How do you feel about Regent's Park?”

“We haven't been in a while,” John ponders, then drops the newspaper. “Alright, I'll pack some of that cake Mrs. Hudson brought up yesterday.” He pauses. “Did you leave any?”

Sherlock huffs. “That was _one_ time, John. Of course I did.”

“One time this month, you mean,” John says, smiling at his indignant expression. “Go get dressed while I get it ready, then.”

The park is just ten minutes away from the flat. John enjoys the walk there, enjoys the busy people passing by them, the cars and busses drowning out their chatter. He enjoys walking there with Sherlock, their hands brushing together every now and then.

He only really appreciates his leg not acting up anymore in moments like these. Most days he forgets how he hated not being able to go anywhere without his stick. He ought to remember more often how good it felt when he first got to run again, realising that he could go out on a whim without having to plan ahead, understanding that he would get to take walks for however long he pleased.

What makes it even better is that he now gets to hold Sherlock's hand while doing so.

“Are you sure there are four-leaf clovers here?” John asks as they enter the park. Sherlock's eyes are already on the lawn. John leaves the searching to him and enjoys the sight of the colourful gardens surrounding them.

“I'm not, but there should be,” Sherlock mumbles.

They don't find any clovers for half an hour. John insists on a break when he hears Sherlock's stomach rumbling, remembering that he hasn't eaten anything yet, and so they settle on a bench.

John watches the people passing by as he eats his cake. Sherlock watches the bees on the bushes next to them. Sherlock pretends not to drop crumbs of his piece on purpose, and John pretends not to see.

They continue their search afterwards, pointing out little details and observations here and there. John enjoys himself immensely. Even Sherlock seems relaxed, probably aware that their last date like this was a while ago, and soon they join hands again as they stroll through the park.

“Look, over there!” John says when something catches his eye, pulling on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock's head spins around, his face lighting up when he sees the meadow full of clovers.

“There we are. There must be two with four leaves,” he mutters, stepping closer. John joins him and soon crouches down.

“Got one,” he says, plucking it from the grass. One leaf is slightly ripped, but it's definitely four-leaved. Sherlock grunts and crouches down as well, scanning the ground avidly. John leans on a tree and watches him, smiling at the people passing by them and staring.

“Aha!” Sherlock exclaims a few minutes later, stepping onto the meadow to pluck a clover. John follows behind him.

“Now what?”

Sherlock inspects his clover closely, then declares, “Now we eat it.”

“We _what?_ ”

“It's an Irish tradition. You find a clover with four leaves, think of the man of your dreams and eat it. Then he's supposed to become yours.”

John holds up his clover with a frown. “That can't be hygienic.” He wrinkles his nose. “What if a dog peed on it?”

“This is a dog-free area,” Sherlock points out. “As for your other concern, we've both ingested far worse things than a small plant in our time.”

John has to admit that he has a point. “What happens afterwards?” he asks, eyeing the plant suspiciously.

“Nothing. Since you're already mine and I'm yours, we'll never find out if it worked,” Sherlock says dryly. John rolls his eyes.

“So we're just doing it so we can cross it off your list.”

“Precisely.”

He sighs. “Let's get it over with, then.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, then opens his mouth and drops the clover on his tongue. John watches him chew in concentration, his eyes never leaving John's face.

“And how was that?”

“Somewhat tangy, actually.” He nods towards John's hand. “Try it. And think of me while you do it.”

John exhales deeply and bites into the clover.

“And?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“You're right. Huh.” He puts the rest of it into his mouth.

“Did you feel any special bonding while eating it?”

“Not really.” John shrugs. “It's just another strange thing we've done together, you know?”

Sherlock nods.

John licks his lips. “Maybe we need to seal it with a kiss,” he suggests, smiling when the corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts.

“We could definitely do that,” he approves, then holds John's chin still as he leans down to kiss him.

“Better,” John says when they part. Sherlock hums in agreement.

“You know, it's a bit sad that we only started that list now,” John muses as they walk back home. “Valentine's Day wasn't even a month ago. That would have given me an excuse to shower you with roses and heart-shaped merchandise.”

Sherlock gives him a look and John giggles.

“There are countless variations of what we know as Valentine’s Day, though,” Sherlock then says. “The Qixi festival in China, for example, although it’s on a different date every year. Or the _Dia dos Namorados_ in Brazil. The sentiment behind it is always the same, really, though not much of that is left now that the day is being turned into a capitalistic circus.”

“Well, we just missed it anyway. Our Valentine’s Day, I mean.”

They didn’t do anything special that day, with John knowing Sherlock’s disdain for the celebration and Sherlock declaring that he didn’t need a special day for loving John, as he obviously loved him _every_ day of the year, _who even invented this inane holiday, John?_

“But we’re just in time for White Day,” Sherlock says, interrupting John's reminiscing. “In fact, it’s next week. On the 14th.”

“What’s White Day?”

“The Japanese version of Valentine’s Day. Or rather, part two of it.”

“Part two?”

“Traditionally, women give their male partners chocolate on Valentine's Day. On White Day, it's the men's job to return the favour by giving the women presents.”

“Hmm. Well, since we're both male and we're being all romantic now, I'm gonna have to see where I'll find something with lots of pink hearts on it to give you on White Day.”

Sherlock huffs, but doesn't object.

“There's another thing on the list before that, though,” he remarks instead, and John hums questioningly. “It's St. Gregory's Day,” Sherlock announces with a smile. “Biscuits and birds, John!”

“Biscuits and birds,” John repeats, then shakes his head. “Right.”

* * *

St. Gregory's Day, as it turns out, is a Slovenian holiday, celebrated two days before White Day. The date, Sherlock explains, signifies the start of spring and all things related to love. Apparently there is a popular saying that birds get married on this day. One of the event's long-standing traditions is to give heart-shaped honey biscuits to loved ones. Bird decor is also prominently featured.

“No live birds,” John says immediately. “They'll shit on everything and it'll be on me to clean that up.”

Sherlock looks mildly disappointed, but nods.

“I found a recipe for honey biscuits on the Internet. I spoke to Mrs. Hudson about the biscuit cutters and she offered to lend us hers. Apparently she owns several heart-shaped ones.” He wrinkles his nose. “Now, how are we going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Bake the biscuits, John. Do we both mix a separate dough or do we make one together and share the results?”

John smiles as he remembers an afternoon a few years back, long before they even got together, making Christmas biscuits with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had pretended to be offended by the tumult happening in his kitchen, but joined them at the table soon after, cutting the most even cookies of them all. Seeing him turn his focus on an activity so simple and ordinary and domestic made John's heart swell.

“Together,” he decides immediately. Sherlock nods.

“I'll take care of the ingredients,” he announces, leaving John speechless.

“You're gonna do the shopping?” he asks, then adds before Sherlock can change his mind, “Get some Hobnobs and a cucumber as well, will you?”

True to his word, Sherlock shows up an hour later with a large bag from Tesco. He neatly places the ingredients on the counter, ready for use first thing in the morning.

“Promise me that you'll try and sleep,” John says before they slide under the covers later. “I know how you can get when you look forward to something.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes, but leans in to softly kiss him goodnight nonetheless.

As expected, Sherlock is already awake when John's eyes open. He's also staring at him, waiting for sleep to loosen its grip on John.

“Happy biscuits-and-birds-Day,” John mumbles after stretching like a cat, reaching for his face. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed as he brushes his thumb over his cheekbone.

“To you too,” Sherlock says, leaning in to peck the corner of John's lips. “Get up,” he then demands, poking at John until he grumbles and sits up.

“If I'd known that baking excites you this much...” he mutters, padding to the bathroom.

When he emerges, Sherlock is already standing in the kitchen, two eggs in his hands and an opened honey pot before him. John narrows his eyes. He steps behind him, turning Sherlock around by the waist. He smirks at him and tilts his head up, waiting for him to give him a kiss.

Sherlock looks surprised, but follows the invitation willingly. John presses their lips together for a few seconds, then tentatively licks over the seam of Sherlock's lip and into his mouth.

“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly when the sweet taste hits his tongue. “I _knew_ it. You already pinched a bit!”

Sherlock stares at him for a second, then catches himself and quirks an eyebrow in an attempt at nonchalance.

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about,” he says haughtily. John swats his bum in reply.

“I'm talking about the contents of our honey pot mysteriously vanishing time and time again. Do you know how much honey I've had to buy since I moved in with you? I knew that it wasn't me with the increased consumption, but I never knew how to prove it.”

He stretches to kiss him again, nibbling at the sweet lip before easing off.

Sherlock huffs. “Your attempts at detective work are amateurish at best.”

“Well, I learn from the best.” John smiles and tugs at his dressing gown. “Come on, let's get started. Before the entire pot vanishes.”

Mixing the dough together is (relatively) easy (or it would be, if Sherlock didn't insist on following the instructions painstakingly accurate).

Cutting the biscuits is a different matter.

“You're doing it wrong, John.”

“I'm not. This is baking, not science. The biscuits don't have to be absolutely perfect.”

“Well, yours sure aren't.”

John elbows him. “I have about twice as many as you do, though. Now which of us is doing better at displaying our love?”

Sherlock's answer is to smear a bit of dough onto John's cheek.

“Oh, how very clumsy of me,” he says when John gasps, returning his look innocently. “I'll have to clean you up now, John.”

“If you're gonna start licking my face like a cat, I swear to god-”

He cuts off when Sherlock leans in dangerously close, gazing at his lips, then up at his eyes. “You like it when I do that,” he mumbles, and John snorts.

“When we're having sex or are about to, yes. In the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson could walk in on us anytime, not so much.”

“Who says we aren't about to have sex?” Sherlock asks and lets his tongue dart out.

John's breath hitches as he licks the dough from his cheek. He draws back when Sherlock is done, only to now eye his lips ominously.

In a voice that is much steadier than his resolution he says, “I do. Not until the biscuits are done, at least.”

Sherlock sighs, but returns to his seat. “You're so unromantic, John,” he complains. John just snorts.

They have tea while the biscuits are in the oven. Sherlock jumps up when the timer goes off, but John swats his fingers away from the door.

“Leave them,” he says, turning the temperature off and opening the door a slit. “They need to cool down. We can try them in an hour or so.”

Sherlock looks dangerously close to sulking.

“Now, where's the bird decoration?” John asks to distract him. “Or were you so disappointed that I said no to the actual birds that you didn't put any up.”

Sherlock suddenly looks weirdly smug. “Bedroom,” is all he says, nodding towards the door. John follows his gaze, then gets up.

“What did you do to it?” he asks, briefly wondering if he'll be faced with padded owls or bird cadavers, since he didn't forbid _those._

The bedroom door is closed, giving nothing away until John pushes it open, only to find their bed covered in feathers.

John gapes at the sight, then turns around to find Sherlock standing right behind him.

“You said no live birds,” he says by way of explanation. John opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You're impossible,” he mumbles, looking back to the bed. His lips quirk into a smile on their own account as he takes in the mess.

“It's why you love me,” Sherlock murmurs. He has stepped closer behind John, pressing up against his back. His warm breath meets the sensitive spot behind John's ear, the one Sherlock loves to tease.

“It is,” John agrees, tilting his head when Sherlock starts brushing his lips over his neck, leaving tiny kisses in the process. “Whatever are we going to do with all those feathers now?”

“I could think of a thing or two,” Sherlock says, then opens his mouth to suck on John's neck. John's sharp intake of breath resembles a hiss. “Seven, in fact. I made a list.”

“Really,” John muses, turning around to catch Sherlock's lips in a deep kiss. “You and your lists,” he mumbles, then reaches for Sherlock's shirt as their mouths meet again. Sherlock walks them both into the room, firmly shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Maybe he should have expected this, John thinks as he's rushing after Sherlock, who's rushing after a suspect, who's running through the streets of Lewisham like a bloody maniac. On the day they wanted to celebrate White Day.

Lestrade called about the case the day before, when they were still snuggled up under the covers with a pound of feathers. The quick shower Sherlock took did nothing to free him of the remainders in his mob of hair, so John had to do quick work with disposing him of the feathers. If he missed one or two, well, it wasn't his fault, was it?

Lestrade's face when he saw them was worth the death glare Sherlock gave him afterwards.

The case had proven a little more complex than initially anticipated when one murder victim turned into three as the Yard went to inform the young man's parents, and the ordinary murder turned into a family massacre. 

The main suspect, uncle of the first victim, is now a few feet in front of them, pushing his way through the crowds, but they will get him. John knows that they will, because Sherlock is making a sharp turn left, barking out John's name to get him to follow.

They take a shortcut John would never have found on his own, but he follows Sherlock blindly. The suspect's face when he sees them running towards him is a perfect picture of horror. John tackles him to the ground without further ado, leaving it to Sherlock to call Lestrade.

They grin at each other as they listen to the sirens in the distance, adrenaline pumping through them both, leaving them breathless long after the man stops struggling.

They follow him back to the station. Sherlock wants to speak to the man, confident that he will get a confession out of him. And he does, of course he does, John thinks with pride as the mystery unravels before his eyes.

It turns out that the entire feud was nothing but an inheritance battle.

“Money,” John says, shaking his head. “He killed his own sister and her family. Because of money.”

“Human nature is endlessly fascinating in its absurdity,” Sherlock mumbles. John looks up and their eyes meet. Sherlock holds out his hand to him. “Come on. Let's get home.”

John takes a deep breath when they get back to Baker Street, inhaling the familiar scent of comfort and safety and home. The thrill of the chase has long worn off, the urgency is gone. They take a shower together that is more about cleaning them up than anything else, though they interrupt each other frequently to press soft kisses to various body parts.

“Let's save that for later,” John mumbles into Sherlock's shoulder when his hands move down to his hips. “We still have a few hours of White Day left. Let's spoil each other rotten with material gifts first.”

Sherlock looks torn, but he withdraws his hands. “If you insist,” he sighs, and John kisses him.

“I had no idea what to get you,” he declares when they sit on the sofa in their pyjamas. “I stumbled upon this by accident.” He shrugs, handing Sherlock the thin, wrapped package.

Since the Japanese traditions involve a man and a woman, they decided to fulfil both parts to get the full experience. John got Sherlock a selection of heart-shaped pralines from Waitrose. Sherlock purchased a big, half-dark and half-white heart from a sinfully expensive confectionery, which is already missing an edge.

Sherlock is weighing his present with interest, his fingers moving beneath the paper deftly. John didn't bother with a fancy wrapping, knowing that it wouldn't survive Sherlock's curiosity anyway.

Sherlock's eyebrows go up as he looks at the magazine inside, and John smiles, pleased that he managed to surprise him. He'd gone into several stores, asking the employees about their music book selections. None of the offers had appealed to him though, knowing that Sherlock either already possessed it or frowned upon it. Eventually he walked into a small shop in Camden, lured in by the closing sale sign. He left with four books for himself, purchased at a third of the original price, and a fitting gift for Sherlock.

“It's a leftover copy,” the owner had said when he'd handed him the magazine, pointing at the publication date inside the cover. “There were only about a hundred of these, and they haven't been sold for years.”

Good enough, John had thought and bought it.

“Forgotten Pieces of the 19th Century,” Sherlock reads the title, then looks up at John.

“I thought there might be something in there that you don't know yet,” he says and shrugs.

“It's a great gift,” Sherlock says and smiles John's favourite smile. “Thank you.”

“I'm glad. You're very welcome.” He watches Sherlock flick through the pages, his eyes moving to his violin more than once. Then he straightens.

“Now yours,” he says, handing John a smaller bag. He peeks inside curiously. Sherlock didn't bother wrapping his gift. John reaches inside and takes out a Moleskine notebook. It's dark blue with a pattern not unlike their wallpaper. The realisation makes him smile.

“You remembered,” he says, looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

John stopped at a Moleskine booth in search of a new notebook a few weeks ago, musing that he'd like to get one, one of these days. In the end he settled on a cheaper one, though he liked the Moleskine better. Sherlock didn't seem too interested at the time, but he must have paid attention all the same.

“Of course I remembered. Did you know that they develop notebooks that transfer your writing to a mobile device immediately?”

“No, I didn't,” John says, eyeing the book suspiciously.

“Don't worry, I didn't get you one of those. We both know that your grasp of technology is basic at best. Mrs. Hudson said that you'd be happier with a traditional notebook and a good pen.”

Despite the insult of his technology skills, John is weirdly touched that Sherlock consulted Mrs. Hudson about his gift. He reaches inside the bag again to take out the pen Sherlock has mentioned.

It's black and shiny, comfortable in his hand, and probably cost more than John wants to know. He turns the pen around. There's a small engraving, smooth golden letters that spell out his name. _Dr. John H. Watson._

He looks up. “Sherlock, this is lovely. That must have cost you a fortune.”

Sherlock just waves his hand. “So you like it?” he asks, a slight crease on his forehead.

John leans in. “I love it,” he assures him. Then he kisses him, brushing his hand through his still wet hair in the process. “And I love _you._ ”

When he draws back his stomach rumbles and he says, “I'm starving. We should order in. What do you want?”

“Indian?” Sherlock asks, and John nods. He places their order without having to ask what he wants, and Sherlock picks up his violin as they wait for the food. He tries out a few of the new pieces before he takes a break to eat, then continues playing. None of the melodies are any he has ever played before, but they sound familiar to John anyway.

“Sherlock,” he says when it dawns on him. “Did you learn how to play popular love songs?”

“Observant as always, John,” Sherlock mumbles, but John hears the fondness in his voice. He smiles.

“That's so lovely. Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome,” Sherlock says, crossing the room to bow his head. John meets him for a kiss, sighing into his parted mouth.

“Love you,” he mumbles as he sits back.

“Love you too,” Sherlock replies, then picks up his violin again. He plays two more songs, then lowers the instrument to look at John.

“You're tired.”

John nods. “Bed?” he asks, suppressing a yawn, and Sherlock nods.

“Alright,” he says when they've settled into bed and reaches for his phone, “tell me how that was.”

John raises his eyebrows. “You were there, weren't you?”

“I don't have any Valentine's Day experiences I could compare this to. Your opinion is more valuable.” He doesn't look particularly bothered by the fact, but John vows to change that next year all the same.

“Well, it was pretty similar, I think. Less hearts and ads all around, though, which wasn't the worst thing. It can add a lot of pressure, you know? Find a special gift, make it extraordinary, that sort of thing. Um. It's nice to show your partner how much you love them, but we do that quite a lot, so it didn't feel that different from most days.”

“We were just more focused on it now, and thus more aware,” Sherlock says with a nod.

“Yep. Exactly.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah, it was nice, wasn't it? I'm not overly fond of the gift aspect, it's hard, finding something for you, and I don't need anything else for myself. But having a day to celebrate that we love each other... it's nice, kind of.”

“Even though we only ended up having about five hours of it,” Sherlock mumbles. John chuckles.

“You know what,” he says, drawing him closer for a soft kiss, “that just suits us, doesn't it? I wouldn't have it any other way.”

* * *

“John.”

John looks up from the telly when Sherlock nestles up against his side. “Yeah, love?” he asks, moving his fingers into his hair automatically.

“I want to try something from the list tomorrow.”

“Okay. Sure. What is it?”

“I'd rather not tell you.” John draws back, trying to get a look at his face. “It's a surprise,” Sherlock elaborates. “It's nothing bad. You'll like it.” He frowns momentarily. “Or at least I hope you will. We'll see. The results will be quite fascinating.”

John glances at him for another moment, but he seems genuine, and so he nods.

“Okay. Alright.”

He drops a kiss to the crown of Sherlock's head and, with Sherlock's arms wrapped around him like an octopus, resumes watching James Bond.

* * *

John listens up when he hears the door unlocking. Sherlock has been out for the last few hours, instructing him via text messages to wait for him in the bedroom about ten minutes ago. He can hear him do something in the kitchen, the rustling of a plastic bag, and then the door to the bathroom opening. Sherlock emerges a moment later, already missing his shoes and socks.

“Hello, John,” he says.

John's mouth falls open as he stares at him in silence.

Sherlock is wearing make-up. Not in some kind of supermodel, runway, over-the-top sort of way, but definitely noticeable. He looks strange and alien and like the goddamn most beautiful thing John has ever laid eyes on. Not that he's biased.

“You painted your face,” he says, his voice full of wonder. Sherlock smiles at the sound, his curved lips catching John's attention momentarily. He could swear that they are a hue darker than usual. It underlines the sharp curve of his upper lip, the plump flesh of his lower one. John swallows.

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asks, crawling onto the bed. John reaches for him immediately, gazing at his face.

“I love it,” he says honestly. “You look beautiful.”

Sherlock smiles again. “Thank you.”

John stares at the curve of his lashes, the dark volume and the expertly applied eyeliner. “When did you learn how to apply make-up?”

John isn't sure, but he thinks that Sherlock is wearing a hint of eyeshadow as well. It somehow brings out the brown speckles in his eyes.

“The woman in the shop assisted me,” Sherlock mumbles, fluttering his eyelashes against John's cheek. John inhales deeply.

“And what is the meaning of this?” he asks a bit breathlessly. 

“It's a Nigerian tradition. Or a variation thereof, since we can't do the real thing.”

“What's the real thing?” John wants to know, releasing a shuddering breath as Sherlock's fingers come up to straddle his face, curl around his jaw and chin. He feels the blood rushing downwards, surprised at his strong reaction to the bit of colour on Sherlock's face. He's always beautiful, of course he is, but this, this is special. John loves his face dearly in every way, but this is just extra. Like the metaphorical cherry on top.

“An annual courtship ritual called _Guérewol_. The men wear traditional make-up and ornaments to impress the women. I adjusted that part to our culture, obviously. Then they dance in front of a jury and, if a woman chooses them, they get to show their beauty again in another dance a year later.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Well, I hope you won't make me wait a whole year for you.”

“I couldn't if I tried,” Sherlock says, brushing his lips over John so softly it's barely a whisper. The honesty in his voice is palpable. It only adds to John's enchantment. “So I left that part out. Of course, I could give you a lapdance, if you needed more... stimulus to decide.”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” John mumbles, his cock already too hard to be comfortable in his trousers. “I rather think I'll go off like a rocket as soon as you touch me like that.”

Sherlock hums considerately. “Well, we can't have that. Now that I put all this make-up on, you better make it worth my while.” 

John recognises his cue. He smirks as he grabs Sherlock around the waist, pushing him onto the mattress in a swift motion.

“Oh, I intend to,” he mumbles, crawling over him. His fingers are on his buttons instantly, making quick work of pushing the shirt off him. He kisses a trail down Sherlock's chest, nuzzling his stomach. “You're so beautiful,” he says, going up to blink at his face. “So fucking gorgeous. I'm the luckiest man in the world.”

Sherlock exhales deeply and brings their mouths together. John marvels at the texture of his lips, the artificial flush on his cheek mixed with the red of his skin where his blood rises.

“So I convinced you, even without the dancing?” Sherlock asks, a glint in his eyes.

“How could I ever choose anyone but you, love?” John asks, kissing at his jaw until Sherlock sighs. “My beautiful man,” he whispers. “That doesn't mean that I don't want that lapdance at some point,” he adds, and Sherlock laughs. The deep rumble goes straight through John to his crotch.

Sherlock leans up and, before pressing their lips together again, says, “That can definitely be arranged.”

* * *

Being cuddled up on the bed with Sherlock is still one of John's (many) favourite activities with him. Being cuddled up on the bed with a Sherlock whose mind is running a mile a minute, however, is slightly less relaxing. He reaches out to touch Sherlock's cheek, running the back of his finger over his smooth skin.

“What's on your mind, love?”

Sherlock turns onto his side, looking at John as he wraps an arm around his middle. “Have you ever written a love letter?” he asks.

“Yeah, I have. I mean, primary school and all that. Later on, too, once or twice, I think.” John narrows his eyes. “Only ever got two in return, though. That's probably what put me off it.” He lifts his shoulders. “Why?” He smiles. “Have you?”

Sherlock snorts. “Did you ever receive one from me?” he asks, and John shakes his head. “Then whom should I have written one?” He starts moving his hand up and down John's side absently. “It's another ritual I read about.”

“Yeah, I think it's pretty common.”

“No, I mean a specific one. It's to do with a tree called the _Bräutigamseiche._ ”

John blinks. “What?”

“Groom's oak. It's a tree in Germany that's over 500 years old and was apparently part of a love story. A girl and a boy, who were unable to be together due to the girl's father, secretly sent each other letters, which they hid in said oak tree. Eventually they did get married-” Sherlock rolls his eyes- “and, of course, the ceremony took place beneath the tree. So now it's become tradition for lovers to send letters to it. It even has its own address. The mailman will take your letters there.”

“Huh,” John says, pursing his lips. “How does your beloved get the letter then, though?”

“They don't. Anyone can read the letters and take them home. It's more about the tree than the person receiving the letter, I suppose.”

“Isn't that kind of like Juliet's house in Verona?”

“In a way.”

John hums. “Well, do you want to do it? Write a love letter to that tree?”

“I'm not sure,” Sherlock says. “I don't know what I'd put into it. Especially since you won't get to read it, but some strangers will, once it gets to that tree.”

“I mean, we could always show each other what we've written before we send them, even though that kind of defies the point. But we won't even get to see them there, unless we take a trip to Germany.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, we can't go on holiday there. I was rather planning a different trip, there's no time for both.”

John sits up. “We're going somewhere? Really? Where to?”

Sherlock looks smug. “You'll find out soon enough,” he says, waving his hand. “For now, focus on the letter.”

“Alright. Well, I can write one. Do you want me to do it right now?”

“I want you to stay exactly where you are right now,” Sherlock says, looking affronted. John chuckles and wraps his arms around him.

“Okay, okay. Not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nuzzles his face into his chest. John sighs contently and closes his eyes.

“You could tell me what you'd write, though,” Sherlock mumbles after a moment.

John opens an eye to peek at him. “Mmh,” he says when he sees Sherlock's expectant gaze through his lashes. “I think it would be hard, writing a love letter to you. There's so much I'd have to mention. Like the way you hold onto me when we're snuggled up in bed-” Sherlock tightens his grip on him and he smiles- “or how you smell like home, or the way you look at me, like I'm the solution to a particularly tricky problem.”

“You're the solution to every problem,” Sherlock mumbles, and John laughs.

“Or how you sometimes say things like that and expect my heart not to skip a beat,” he continues. “How you chose me, out of all the people in this world, to be the one for you. How you're perfect for me in every way, how we fit together so effortlessly. The way you smile when I kiss you unexpectedly. The way _you_ kiss me. Your hair. Your face. Your body. Hell, your _mind._ ”

He inhales deeply as the thinks. “The way you look when you play the violin and get lost in the music. How you behave with Mrs. Hudson. Your heart, how it's so much bigger than you let everyone believe, and how you let me into it. The way you encountered so many obstacles, over and over and over, and you just kept going, fought your way through everything. The way you sometimes don't know why I'm angry, and then other times you take one look at me and give me exactly what I need, when I don't even know myself.”

Sherlock has gone very still. John moves his hand over his back in soothing circles, giving him time to process.

“John,” he says after a while, and John smiles fondly.

“The way you say my name," he continues quietly. "You always say it, all the time. I never used to think that it was special, but you make it special when you say it. Like a prayer, or a demand, or a question or a love confession. The way you love me unconditionally, as I love you, and don't shy away from letting me know. How you would do anything for me.”

He swallows, momentarily overwhelmed by the truth behind his words. It's scary, the way Sherlock loves him. It's mad and thrilling and, without a doubt, the greatest privilege John has ever known.

“Most of all, I love how you're unapologetically you, and how you let me love you and care for you exactly as you are. I love how we have ridiculous fights and then make up in spectacular ways.”

He stops and smiles, shaking his head slightly. “I think I'm just madly in love with you, overall.”

Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbow, blinking rapidly as he takes in his face. John lets him look in silence.

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Mmh.”

“Maybe sending those letters isn't necessary,” Sherlock mumbles, and John nods.

“Maybe it isn't,” he agrees, before pulling Sherlock up and kissing every remaining words out of him.

* * *

“I still can't believe that you took me to Paris,” John says as they step outside the Charles de Gaulle airport.

“I can't believe you've never been,” Sherlock retorts. “Nevertheless, this makes for a perfect trip. The supposed 'city of love', combined with the romantic ritual we're about to perform here-”

“Plus lots of sex in our fancy hotel room,” John cuts in, giving him a smirk. “That does sound like a perfect first trip to me.”

They go to see the Eiffel Tower first after they check into their (really quite ridiculously expensive) hotel. John initially wanted to go up, but upon seeing the masses of tourists, decides against it.

“Let's go to your bridge,” he suggests instead, and Sherlock takes his arm and leads the way.

He explained the ritual they were coming for to John on the plane.

“There's a bridge called _Pont des Arts_ close to the Louvre. It's a common ritual for couples to bring a lock, write their names or initials on it and put it onto the railing.”

“Blimey,” John said. “That's got to be a lot of locks.”

Despite this thought, he stops in his tracks when the bridge appears in sight. Sherlock gives him a look from the side. “I did tell you it's a popular custom.”

“Yeah, I just didn't quite realise there would be that many.”

The railing is covered in locks, shining in silver and gold and a few colours. It's a sunny day in Paris, and the light reflects on the metal to create an even brighter reflection. They walk closer until they reach the bridge, and John leans down to take a few of the locks in hand.

“How many are there?”

“Just a fraction of the total number of locks people have left here,” Sherlock replies. “The city takes them off every now and then to prevent the railing from collapsing and make room for new ones.”

“Huh. That's not very romantic.” John lets his eyes roam over the locks, seeking a free spot. “What about there?” he asks, pointing to the middle of the railing a few feet from them.

Sherlock steps closer to the railing, reaching into his pocket. He chose a simple golden lock, as of now free of any inscriptions.

He reaches into his other pocket and gets a marker, opening it with his mouth before writing something. Then he passes lock and marker to John, and he smiles when he sees that Sherlock has written his initials instead of his own. He adds a slightly crooked _SH_ and then turns it around to write the date onto it.

Sherlock gives him the key and he opens the lock, leaning down to attach it to a hole in the railing. He straightens when it's closed, blinking at Sherlock.

“Now you,” he says, wrapping an arm around him. Sherlock takes the key and throws it into the river beneath them. They both watch it disappear in the water.

“Love you,” John says, tilting his chin up.

“I love you too,” Sherlock replies, and kisses him. Another couple a few metres away mirrors them, and John smiles into the kiss.

“Thanks for taking me here,” he says when they part, looking at their lock, just one of many, but somehow sticking out to him like no other.

“It's my pleasure.”

They slowly walk from the bridge, deciding to visit the Louvre as they walk past it. The queue is long, but they keep themselves busy by deducing the people around them, causing a laughing fit and a few rude stares from other tourists.

“Bit disappointing, isn't it?” John asks when they come out a few hours later. “The Mona Lisa, I mean. I thought it would be bigger.”

“Most people assume that,” Sherlock says, his brow furrowed. “I'm more concerned about her lack of eyebrows, though.”

John snorts. “Yeah, but you already knew that, didn't you? From pictures and all.”

Sherlock remains silent. John looks at him curiously. “What? You did know what the Mona Lisa looked like before we went in, didn't you? You didn't... delete it, right? Oh god. I bet you _did_ delete it. You didn't know what the most famous painting in the world looked like, did you?”

“Of course I did, don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock replies. John glances at him with raised eyebrows, and when Sherlock turns his head and their eyes meet, they both start giggling.

“Lunch?” Sherlock asks when they've caught their breaths, and John replies, “Starving.”

They eat at a lovely bistro at the riverside of the Seine, then continue their walk through the city. John insists on seeing all the popular sights and Sherlock pretends to be annoyed, but John knows that he's enjoying himself. He's definitely enjoying himself when he gets to speak French to their waiters and sellers on the streets, using his knowledge and impressing John at the same time, which is probably in his top five list of things to do.

He's _especially_ enjoying himself when John shows him just how impressed he is in their room later that night, tiring them both out so thoroughly that they sleep in the next morning. They make up for it with a walk by the Seine at night before stopping at the Eiffel Tower, spontaneously settling down on the grass beneath it.

Despite the numerous people trying to sell them wine or champagne they enjoy the moment, and when they lie down, their sides pressed together and their hands intertwined, the sellers leave them be.

“Hold on,” Sherlock mumbles at one point, glancing at his phone. “It should start in a minute.”

“What am I waiting for?” John asks, and then the Eiffel Tower starts sparkling in bright lights. John sucks in a deep breath. “Wow,” he mutters, looking up. He can feel Sherlock watching him from the side and eventually turns his head, captured by his beautiful face resting inches from his. The lights shine on his skin and John can't do anything but lean in and kiss him.

It might be one of the best moments of John's entire life.

* * *

Despite the intensely beautiful three days they spent in Paris, it's good to be back at Baker Street. Sherlock bustles through the kitchen, checking on several experiments John doesn't even want to know about, while John starts unpacking.

It only takes a few minutes, however, before Sherlock starts hovering near John, not actually helping with the suitcases, but rather conveniently blocking John's way.

John puts his hands on his hips. “We should unpack.”

“Later,” Sherlock says, tugging at his wrist. John only sighs and lets himself be pulled into the living room and onto the sofa. He doesn't protest all that much, though, since cuddling up with Sherlock isn't the worst way to kill some time.

“This is nice,” he says when Sherlock is done with arranging them to his liking. “And Paris was really nice, too. Thank you for taking me there.”

“You're quite welcome,” Sherlock says, smiling at him. “Thank you for coming.”

John chuckles. “Anytime, believe me. Any other trips we have to take because of your list?”

“Not necessarily, no. Well, there's another custom in Rome, but I don't like it.”

John grins at the adorable wrinkles on Sherlock's nose. “Why not?”

“Have you ever heard of the Trevi Fountain? You're supposed to throw a coin into it over your shoulder and wish for something. Throw two coins and you'll find new love.”

“Well, that's not bad, is it? Bit superstitious, of course, but...”

“It's ridiculous. I don't want new love. I already have the one I want.”

John looks at him, unable to stop his mouth from hanging open. “Sherlock...” He shakes his head slightly. And he's the supposed romantic in this relationship.

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say more, but John attacks him with a kiss that effectively silences him. Eventually they roll over on the sofa, the suitcases completely forgotten.

* * *

“Flitch of bacon,” Sherlock says one day.

“Sorry?” John looks up from his laptop, raising his eyebrows.

“Trials from Dunmow. The married couple that can show the Judge and the Jury that they haven't regretted being married in a year and a day gets awarded a flitch of bacon.”

“Huh. And how would you show them that?”

“Well, I could go into our spectacular and frequently explored sex life, for starters.”

John snorts. “Yeah, you would. You probably shouldn't, though. There's enough rumours about us as it is, I'm not sure we need another one.” He furrows his brow. “Besides, we're not married.”

“We're as good as,” Sherlock says, and John's heart jumps funnily at the words. They evoke images in his head he doesn't want to examine further now, so he safely stores them away for later, not thinking about wedding rings and ceremonies and feeding Sherlock wedding cake at all.

“And what would you do with a flitch of bacon?” he asks to distract himself. Sherlock shrugs.

“Give it to someone from the homeless network. I don't like bacon.”

“Well, it's a shame we're not taking part then.” He turns his attention to his laptop again, then stops. “Hold on. You didn't want to do this as part of your list, did you?”

“Not really, no. I was just thinking about it.”

“Alright. Well, if you think about it some more and come to the conclusion that we should do it, I'm gonna go right ahead and tell you that we won't.”

Sherlock only gives him a look. “It's only happening once every four years anyway. We couldn't participate now even if we wanted to.”

“Which we don't,” John says. “Decidedly.”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbles, already miles away. John just shakes his head and returns to his laptop.

* * *

Sherlock has been surfing the Internet a lot lately. John doesn't think anything of it at first, quite used to his excessive tendencies at this point. It's only when he steps behind him one day and Sherlock slams the laptop shut before pretending to be busy with something else that he begins to wonder. He tries to peek over his shoulder a couple of times until he's certain that Sherlock is hiding something. He's not sure what it is, and if Sherlock thinks it's unwise to tell him then he's not sure if he wants to know.

He's seriously reconsidering his judgement when a suspicious brown package arrives one day (suspicious only because Sherlock disappears into the bedroom with it before John even gets a chance to ask what's in it). Eventually Sherlock comes out, apparently having decided to attach himself to John's hip for the rest of the day. When he enters the bedroom later, he realises why.

The sight of six dildos neatly laid out on the bed is enough to make him stop dead in his tracks.

John turns around to look at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation. Sherlock just looks back, cocking his head.

“Sherlock, why did you buy six dildos?” John asks eventually, his eyes wandering back to the bed. Taking a closer look, he realises that two of the items are actually vibrators. “I mean, not that I'm complaining,” he adds, licking his lips.

“It's a ritual from the list,” Sherlock says.

“And which one would that be? Don't tell me it's sex. We have plenty of that, and trust me when I say that romance is not always involved when people do that.”

“Kanamara Matsuri,” Sherlock explains. “It's a Japanese festival that gets celebrated once a year. It translates to 'Festival of the Steel Phallus', which sums it up quite nicely, actually.”

John gives him a disbelieving look. “There's a penis festival in Japan?” he asks, shaking his head. “Just... why?”

“According to legend, a demon with sharp teeth once crawled into the vagina of a prostitute – I know, stay with me there – because he'd fallen in love with her and gotten jealous, so he castrated the suitors. So the prostitute had an iron phallus made and inserted it, which ruined the demons teeth. This led to the enshrinement of the item.”

John stares at him. “Wow.”

“I know. People parade through the streets with phallus-shaped decorations, lollies, candles. The highlight is the huge pink penis shrine that gets carried through the streets. Apparently everyone tries to touch it. It is believed that the shrine offers divine protections for marriage and married-couple harmony.”

“We're still not actually married,” John mumbles, but his eyes are plastered on the selection of dildos in front of him. Seeing them alone floods his mind with images that make it quite hard to follow the conversation.

“Nevertheless, I thought this variation of the festivities might be... enjoyable.”

John looks up, his lips curving into an amused smile at Sherlock's expression.

“Did you, now?” he muses, reaching for a long, black exemplar with nubs. Sherlock's breath hitches as he takes it in hand, turning it over.

“Do any of these... inspire you?” Sherlock asks, quirking an eyebrow.

John chuckles, his voice rough as he says, “I have an idea or two, yeah. I'm very excited to try them out, I'll have you know.” He pauses. “Why six, though?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I couldn't decide, so I got the ones that appealed to me the most.” John glances up at him, and his mouth turns dry as their eyes meet.

“Well,” he says, putting the dildo down to start unbuttoning his shirt. “That must have been hard, all that anticipation and not being able to tell me about it.”

He shrugs out of his shirt before looking up again. Sherlock's eyes are roaming over his chest before they snap up to his face. John takes a step towards him, reaching for his buttons. Sherlock lets out a deep breath, happy to watch John do all the work. When he is done with the shirt he moves on to Sherlock's belt, unbuckling it painfully slow.

Sherlock's breathing is uneven when his fingers move to his button. When John pulls the zipper he makes quick work of it and steps out of his trousers, and John uses the time to get rid of his own. Wearing only his pants, John turns around, deliberately touching every dildo before taking a smaller one in hand.

“Sherlock,” he purrs, lowering himself on the bed. “Come join me, love.”

And Sherlock, being halfway across the room before John even finishes his request, doesn't need to be told twice.

* * *

“I suggest that you take the sixth of July off,” Sherlock says out of the blue. John looks up, glancing at the calendar on the wall before nodding slowly.

“That should be alright,” he says, giving him a questioning look. “Is this about our list?”

Sherlock nods, pulling out a chair from under the table to sit across John.

“It's the last thing we have to do,” Sherlock says. “I imagine you won't mind my plans. It's International Kissing Day.”

“Oh.” John nods. “I remember you telling me about that. Christ, has it really been that long since we started?” He shakes his head. “So, your plans involve what, me staying at home and... kissing you?”

Sherlock nods. “And me kissing you, and both of us kissing each other, preferably.”

John sits back with a smile. “That's a good reason to take a day off if I ever saw one.”

Sherlock looks pleased. “I'll get the lip balm,” he says, folding his hands together. “Do you prefer natural or flavoured ones?”

* * *

Sherlock has actually bought lip balm.

“Raspberry,” he says, pointing at the first one, “neutral, honey, and vanilla.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Sure you didn't go a bit overboard there, love?”

“One can never be precautious enough,” Sherlock dismisses his question. “Besides, we can use them when it gets colder again.”

“True,” John concedes. He picks up the honey stick, then the little container with vanilla. “Which one do you want to start with?”

“Something flavoured first, the honey and neutral balms are for later when our lips are chapped.” Sherlock glances at the clock. “Almost midnight. I think I can put it on now.”

“Should I do that too?” John asks, watching him drag the stick over his enticing lips.

“No, too much won't do any good. And we don't want the flavours to mingle.” Sherlock smacks his lips and John smiles, leaning in over the table.

“Suits you,” he comments, deliberately dropping his eyes to his mouth. Sherlock purses his lips ever so slightly.

“You can hardly see it,” he says, but John can tell that he's pleased from the set of his shoulders, the way he leans in as well to bring their faces closer together. John can't help but grin. He loves how easily Sherlock responds to his flirting, every time, without fail, unaware of it as he might be.

“Well, then it must be your face that's so enchanting.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock closes the distance between them and kisses John square on the mouth. John grins into the kisses, returning the affection enthusiastically. He licks over Sherlock's lips and tastes the sweetness of artificial raspberry. It's rather pleasant, though the fact that it's Sherlock he's currently snogging might add to it.

“It's not past midnight yet,” John says when they part, smirking at him. Sherlock huffs.

“It is now. And anyway. It always is somewhere. Shut up and kiss me.”

And how could John refuse such a charming request?

He takes Sherlock's face into his hands, teasing him by breathing on his lips for a few seconds before lowering his mouth to his. Sherlock hums into the kiss, letting him take control until John's back makes itself known. Being draped over the kitchen table just isn't quite comfortable enough.

“We need to change positions,” he says, straightening with a wince. Sherlock stands up and comes around the table, pushing John into a chair unceremoniously before settling on the table, returning his attention to John's lips. Thoroughly.

The taste of raspberry soon fades, but neither of them thinks about reapplying the lip balm. They continue kissing for a few minutes before John breaks the touch and gets up, stretching his back. “Well, that was a good start, but I'm going to bed. We have all day when we wake up.”

“I'll come with you,” Sherlock says, as John suspected he would. The prospect of goodnight kisses has often lured Sherlock into bed. They brush their teeth together before Sherlock leaves to let John finish.

When he comes into the bedroom he is already on the bed, the little container with vanilla lip balm in one hand. He looks up at the sound of John entering, blinking at him through his lashes.

“Would you mind helping me apply this?” he asks innocently, and John starts giggling. Sherlock's lips twitch. “It's a perfectly serious enquiry,” he says, his eyes twinkling in the way John so adores. He shakes his head, slipping under the covers before taking the container out of Sherlock's hands and dipping his finger into the balm.

“Come here, you ridiculous man,” he mumbles. Sherlock obediently comes closer, looking down to John's finger moving over his lips. John smiles when the balm is applied, wiping his finger on his trousers.

“There, all done.”

Sherlock rubs his lips together, then purses them. “Kiss me,” he demands, and John leans in and does as he's asked.

“Mmh,” he mumbles, licking over Sherlock's lower lip. “Bit stickier than the raspberry one.”

“Which one do you prefer?”

John shrugs, stealing another kiss before settling onto his pillow. “I like both. You?”

“I haven't decided yet. We'll have to take the other flavours into consideration when we wake up.”

“We will,” John promises, closing his eyes. “Tomorrow. Night, Sherlock.”

He feels Sherlock's lips pressing against his temple, leaving a sticky mark. “Good night, John,” he says, then turns off the light.

When John wakes up, Sherlock's arm is flung over his waist. John slips away from under him and pads to the bathroom, going through his morning routine before heading to the kitchen.

He returns to the bedroom with a cup in his hands a few minutes later, glancing at the bed. Sherlock has turned around while he was gone, but he's still asleep.

John puts the cup onto his bedside table and sits on the edge of the mattress. After brushing some hair out of Sherlock's face he presses a kiss to his forehead. His lips curve into a smile when Sherlock's eyelids flutter open and his gaze settles on John's face, still soft and drowsy from sleep.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, and Sherlock lets out a deep, content breath. His eyes wander to the cup next to him.

“You made tea,” he says, his voice slightly scratchy.

“I did.”

Sherlock sits up, managing to look breathtaking despite (or because of) his dishevelled hair. His fingers curl around the cup and he sighs as the warm liquid fills his mouth. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I figured you needed to be hydrated for what we've planned today.”

Sherlock's lips quirk into a smile as he gazes at John from behind the cup. “You're quite right,” he agrees.

John sits with him as he drinks his tea, gradually becoming more awake in the process.

“You gonna take a shower?” he asks when the cup is empty, and Sherlock nods. “Alright, I'll go and set up breakfast in the meantime.”

He leans in to peck Sherlock's lips. “Be quick, or I'll eat all the honey without you,” he mumbles.

After a quick shower (though he insists that John's "ridiculous attempt at a threat" has nothing to do with it) Sherlock joins him in the kitchen, and once they've eaten and Sherlock has given John a sticky kiss (“honey is good for the lips, John”), they relocate to the sofa.

John hardly gets a chance to sit down before Sherlock is crawling over him, settling in his lap with his arms slung around his neck. John blinks at him.

“Hi there.”

“Hello.” Sherlock's voice is low, and John knows that it's on purpose, but he falls for it everytime. Before Sherlock can as much as ask for it he's leaning in, pressing their lips together.

It's nice, slow and easy, though John has a feeling that it won't stay that way. It never does with Sherlock.

He opens an eye when Sherlock's hand moves to the pocket of his dressing gown, pulling out two lip balms.

“Raspberry,” John decides without taking his lips from Sherlock's, and Sherlock responds by deepening the kiss for a moment before parting from him.

“As you wish,” he says, pursing his lips to apply the balm. John leans in to smell Sherlock's lips first, then lures him into a gentle kiss. He gives a questioning hum when Sherlock smears his lips against his, realising belatedly that he's transferring the rest of his balm to John.

“Your lips need maintenance too,” Sherlock explains, and John nods gravely.

“Of course.”

Soon their lips are free of any lip balm. After half an hour of intense snogging John requests a break and makes tea, and then they lounge around, alternating between lazy kissing, dozing on the sofa or working on their websites until John's stomach rumbles. Sherlock sighs, and John chuckles.

“Not all of us can control our bodily needs as much as you do,” he says, gently pushing Sherlock from his lap.

The day goes by slowly, with them wrapped up in their little cocoon of tea and lip balm flavours and more kisses than either of them can count. Mrs. Hudson comes by in the afternoon, flustered at first that she's interrupting something, but John enlightens her and invites her to stay for a cup of tea. She conjures up some biscuits from her latest cooking session and giggles when Sherlock insists that John kisses the crumbs from his lips.

She leaves them 'to it' in the evening, prompting Sherlock to take her by her word and pull John to the bedroom, where he enthusiastically kisses every bit of his skin he can reach. By the end of it John's too worked up to reciprocate, and so they remain in the bedroom a little longer. Afterwards John settles on kissing every inch of Sherlock's face multiple times, and when it gets dark and he grows hungry again, he drags Sherlock back into the kitchen.

“You gonna help me cook, or do you just plan on standing behind me to kiss my head until I'm done?” he asks, fiddling with a pot.

Sherlock wraps his arms around his waist in reply, and John accepts his fate and starts cooking with a six foot tall octopus clinging to him, pressing kisses to the crown of his head at irregular intervals.

“One hour break,” he announces when the pasta is ready. “No more kissing until at least eight, alright?”

Sherlock frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but John forestalls him. “We need to eat, and you need to rest before your lips start getting numb. As much as I've enjoyed today, I want to have something to kiss in the future as well.”

Sherlock closes his mouth and nods briefly. “Fine,” he says, slumping onto a chair. John walks behind him to set the table, nearly breaking his own rule by kissing the top of Sherlock's head. He settles for ruffling his hair instead, lightly in order not to annoy him, and then sits down opposite him to eat.

Of course, Sherlock's body registers hunger as soon as he's presented with food and so he gets absorbed in his dinner soon, so much so that it surprises John when he feels his foot nudge his own under the table.

He looks up. Sherlock gives him an innocent look while his feet rub against John's in a very distracting manner.

“You didn't say anything about other physical contact,” Sherlock points out when John lifts his eyebrows. John grins and shakes his head.

“I love you,” he tells him, and Sherlock gives him the most beautiful smile.

They settle on the sofa afterwards, and when Sherlock deems it too impractical they move to the bed. They kiss in between checking their phones and surfing the Internet, and when Sherlock gets bored they abandon their devices and John entertains Sherlock in another way that resembles kissing closely enough.

A quick rub with a towel and some tea later they end up wrapped around each other again. John wonders if they'll ever separate again, or just merge permanently.

“Twenty minutes until midnight,” Sherlock says, his fingers tapping a gentle rhythm onto John's hip.

John hums in acknowledgement and rolls onto his side. “Best make the most of it,” he replies, and then he makes it his mission to engage Sherlock's mouth so much that he doesn't even find the time to speak.

The next time John looks at his phone, it's past midnight.

“Kissing Day is over,” he mumbles, pecking the tip of Sherlock's nose anyway. Sherlock sighs.

“Shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

John laughs, elbowing him gently. “I daresay you've been enjoying yourself thoroughly all day. As have I.”

Sherlock hums, grazing his necks with his lips.

“Was that all, then?” John asks, wrapping his arms around Sherlock tightly. “Are we done with your list?”

Sherlock hums into his neck. “It's done,” he confirms, his voice a low whisper on John's skin.

John hums as well, raising a hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's silky curls. His other hand comes to rest on his waist, holding him close. “And what do you say?” he asks. “What's your final judgement?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John realises that they've matched their breathing. He moves his hand up and down Sherlock's waist, waiting for him to speak.

“I love you,” Sherlock eventually says. John smiles.

“And you found that out through your list, did you?”

“No.” Sherlock pushes himself up, looking at John's face intensely. “I knew that I loved you before. _You_ knew that I loved you. I don't love you any differently now. Or more.”

He brings a hand to John's face, cupping his cheek with utmost care. “Because it's not possible to love you any more than I already do. I don't think.”

John blinks at him, his insistent eyes, the flush of his cheeks, and a wave of pure, unadulterated love washes over him so intensely that he thinks he might burst.

“You know that the feeling's mutual, right?” he asks.

Sherlock nods and buries his head in the curve of John's neck. John lets him, petting his hair softly. When Sherlock eventually raises his head again, just slightly nudging John's cheek with his nose, his lips parted, John doesn't need more invitation.

He sinks onto Sherlock's mouth, their lips melting together effortlessly as they kiss. It's warm and familiar and perfect, a slow dragging of slick lips, a breathy slide of mouths, and John nearly shudders with the intimacy.

“So what are the results, then?” John asks when they part. Sherlock snuggles closer, throwing a leg over John's. “Was it the way you thought it would be?”

Sherlock hums, and John smiles as he climbs over him, his knees encasing John in a comfortable hold.

“It was fascinating, at the very least.”

John raises his eyebrows, smiling up at Sherlock. “Hearing you say that romantic rituals are fascinating almost seems too good to be true.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Don't be ridiculous,” he says. His fingers tighten around John's body and he leans down.

“Let me guess.” John pretends to be deep in thought for a moment. “You wouldn't have considered any of those things on the list fascinating if it hadn't been you and me doing them, together.”

“Mmmh,” comes a muffled sound from Sherlock, who has conveniently sealed his lips to John's neck again. John chuckles softly.

“Well, we got to create some memories together, at the very least.”

Sherlock hums affirmatively.

“Anything you'd want to repeat?” he asks, and Sherlock takes his lips from him to reply. “Nothing on a regular basis. Although some of them _were_ fascinating, I think I prefer our own rituals.”

“Yeah,” John says, moving his hand up and down Sherlock's back, “me too.”

Sherlock's breath is warm against his neck. John relishes the sensation.

“Although...” He trails off, biting his lip. Sherlock draws back to look at him.

"What?"

“I believe there's one very important ritual between lovers that we've left out.”

John gives Sherlock time to look at him, his eyes roaming over his features, no doubt taking in the telltale signs of his sudden nervousness.

“Oh?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Which one would that be?”

John purses his lips. This isn't how he planned for this to go, not at all. He isn't prepared in the slightest. But he looks up at Sherlock's face hovering over him, his hair a wild mess, and suddenly he knows that this is the only possible course of action, the only way that this can go. He reaches up to brush an errant curl out of his forehead and whispers, “Marriage proposal.”

He's not quite sure, but he's fairly certain that Sherlock has stopped breathing. Most likely because he himself has stopped breathing, and they look at each other in perfect stillness for a beat.

Then Sherlock opens his mouth, and John, in an attempt to forestall him, does as well and so they end up saying at the same time, “Marry me.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “No, John, I'm asking you. Marry me.”

“I brought it up, and that's not a question. Sherlock, will you marry me?”

Sherlock huffs, but the grin on his face is so wide that it lights up the entire room. John thinks that he's never seen anything with so much clarity. Of _course_ he's going to marry Sherlock. Of course it's going to be him he'll spend the rest of his life with. It was always going to be him, or no one at all.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, bringing his head down to give John an urgent, deep kiss that leaves him more than a little breathless. Refusing to break the touch he mumbles onto his lips, “But only if you'll marry me too.”

John chuckles, wrapping his arms around him in a tight embrace. “Yes,” he murmurs, then breaks away to shower every part of Sherlock's face he can reach with kisses. “Yes, I'll marry you.”

“John,” Sherlock sighs, clutching at him to guide his mouth to his again.

“I love you too,” John says, because he always know what Sherlock means, and then he seals their lips in another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my native language, if you found any mistakes, feel free to point them out to me!
> 
> Fun fact: part of the Pont des Arts actually collapsed in 2014, so there are no more locks allowed. Needless to say, that didn't happen in the universe of this story.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If there's anything at all you want to say, comments make me incredibly happy :)


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